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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


THE    WAYFARERS 


Deb  peregrini,  cbe  pensosi  andate 
Forse  di  cosa  che  non  to  presente, 
fertile  voi  at  si  lontana  gente, 

Come  alia  vista  voi  ne  dimostrate  ? 

La  Vita  Nuova. 


THE  WAYFARERS 


Josephine    Preston    Peabody 


BOSTON 
COPELAND   AND    DAY 

M  DCCC  XCVIII 


COPYRIGHT  1898  BY  COPELAND  AND  DAY 


"5531 

TO    MY   SISTER   MARION 


1257455 


CONTENTS 


THE   WAYFARERS  i 

THEY    PASS  ii 

The  Shepherd-girl  13 

Caravans  1 4 

Isolation  1 5 

The  Woman  of  Three  Sorrows  16 

Spinning  in  April  18 

Horizon  20 

The  Fishers  22 

Canonized  23 

The  Weavers  26 

One  Passes  in  the  Dark  30 

Dreams  3  2 

One  that  Followed  34 

A  Water-carrier  36 

Pity  39 

Bird  of  Tester  day  4 1 

THREE   IDYLS  43 

The  Watching  of  Penelope  45 

Daphne  Laurea  47 

Orpheus  in  Hades  50 

O  Far-off  Rose!  51 


CONTENTS 

LYRICS   AND    SONNETS 

Words,  words! 

Song  of  a  Shepherd-boy  at  Bethlehem 

The  Vigil  of  the  Sphinx 

The  Song-maker 

Sonnet  in  a  Garden 

A  Changeling  Grateful 

After  Music 

Songs 

"Ah,  but  when  June's  gone  " 

"My  Lady  bent  her  lucent  eyes  on  me  " 

"  Shall  I  upbraid  or  praise  her  ?  " 

New  Bloom 

Sunset 

Inland 

Dryads 

Wood-song 

Summer  Silence 

Happiness 

Jongleur 

Fare  You  Well,  Joy 

Dew-fall 

My  Soul  is  among  Lions 

In  Time  of  Famine 

Old  Broideries 

The  Piper 


CONTENTS 

A  Road-tune  72 

Rubric  73 

The  Garden  73 

To  the  Unsung  74 

Befriended  7  5 

THE    ENEMY  LISTENS                                       77 

Envoy  83 


THE    WAYFARERS 


THE    WAYFARERS 


I   HELD  my  way  along  the  years 
With  all  that  errant  company. 
The  eyes  of  the  untroubled  spheres 
Beheld  us,  cold  with  mystery  : 

We  questioned  each  false  guide  of  day 
That  lighted  us  upon  the  way, 

And   all    our    parley    sunk  like   dew   into   the   loud,    un- 
answering  sea. 

ii 
But  even  while  we  all  despaired 

In  desert  places  no  man  knew, 
We  spake  of  her  to  whom  we  fared, 

That  she  might  read  our  darkness  through  : 
"  Life,  the  Revealer,  when  we  reach 
Her  mother  knees,  shall  smile  to  teach 
Her  soul  to  us  who  name  her  now,  as  our  poor  dreams 
would  have  us  do." 


There  were  who  journeyed  swift  at  heart 
And  saw,  with  eyes  unstung  of  tears, 
The  coiling  sea  that  lurked  apart, 
The  cold  forgetfulness  of  spheres. 

They  hoarded  not  their  hearts  for  gain, 
But  spent  red  joy  and  regal  pain  : 

They  wrought,  from  all  their  heritage,  rich  gifts  for  the 
unheeding  years. 


THE    WAYFARERS 


For  some  had  learned  the  lore  of  springs 

To  wake  new  life  within  the  throng. 
With  call  of  pipe  and  throb  of  strings, 
They  pricked  the  darkness  all  along. 
With  viol  breath  they  cooled  the  sun, 
As  doves,  alighting  one  by  one, 

Bring  purple  solace  to  the  noon,  like  a  dim  water  and  its 
song. 


And  some  were  wise,  with  gracious  hands 

To  shape  us  fair  immortal  things. 
All  the  slow  craft  Time  understands 

They  knew,  save  how  to  doom  with  wings 
The  creature  clay,  that  answered  nought. 
Alas,  poor  gods  !   For  all  they  wrought 
White    oracles,    yet    none   gave    ear    or    answer    to    our 
questionings. 


All  these  kept  songful  company, 

With  brother  looks,  in  diverse  tongue  ; 
I  wot  that  manna  might  not  be 
A  largess  sweeter  to  the  throng. 

Their  speech  was  such  a  shadow  as 
Takes  pity  on  the  parching  grass. 

They  would  have  cheered  us,   saying,    "  Life  shall  tell 
you  that  her  name  is  Song." 


THE    WAYFARERS  3 

VII 

There  were  who  walked  apart  from  these, 

With  eyes  upon  the  way  beneath  ; 
They  questioned  not  the  wilderness, 
Nor  gladdened  it  with  eager  breath. 
The  one  poor  path  they  bent  to  see 
Crept  through  the  sand-dunes  sullenly  ; 
They  girt  their  hearts  up  unto  pain  and  said,  "Her  one 
true  name  is  Death." 


Some  journeyed  glad  as  men  that  fare 

Through  dreams ;  and  of  their  dream  they  wove 
A  loneliness  of  light  to  wear 

(Like  those  far- travellers  above)  : 

And  bright  outlooking,  wrapt  in  this, 
They  saw  no  kindred  chrysalis 

Pent  in  dull  patience,  but  they  sang,  "Life  knoweth  that 
her  name  i?  Love." 


But  myriads  were  there  more  than  these, 

Like  rain,  unnumbered  and  half-heard  ; 
They  murmured  at  the  wilderness  — 

Poor  rain,  whose  sorrow  hath  no  word  !  — 
Or  plied  the  lowly  tasks  they  found, 
As  unseen  creatures  of  the  ground,  — 
The  thousand-fold  dim  voice  of  noon  that  is  but  silence, 
to  the  bird. 


THE    WAYFARERS 


Oh,  years  alone  have  songful  lips 

To  tell  you  how  we  wandered  on, 
As  far  as  all  the  sunken  ships 

That  stirred  a  ripple,  long  agone. 
And  whether  I  took  path  away 
Or  wandered  thence  for  blind  dismay, 
I  know  not,  but  a  dusk  came  down  and  thrust  me  onward 
all  alone. 


XI 

The  wistful  even,  like  a  moth, 

Yearned  upward  to  the  only  light  ; 
And  as  a  crafty  taper  doth 

The  moon  did  beckon,  blithe  and  white. 
The  dusk  reached  blindly  as  a  prayer 
Unto  the  goodly  promise  there, 

And  withered  :  down,  with  blackened  wings,  the  shadows 
swarmed  into  the  night. 


XII 

There  was  no  path  to  point  the  way 

Where  Life  abode  ;  no  mark  was  set. 
The  fields  were  weary  of  the  day 
And  seemed  to  muse  and  to  forget. 
The  shadows  beckoned  all  in  turn, 
But  when  I  followed  them,  to  learn, 
They  shook  dull  locks,  and  all  the  night  fell  round  about 
me  like  a  net. 


THE    WAYFARERS  5 

XIII 

And  there  the  torpid  marsh  lay  prone 

Its  dappled  length,  in  mockery  ; 
And  there  the  sea  kept  watch  alone, 
A  live,  bright  coil  that  hissed  at  me. 
Not  to  the  stars  I  looked  for  ruth  : 
Like  vestals  high  and  far,  in  sooth, 

With  silver  looks  of  laughter  all,  they  leaned  from  out  the 
dark  to  see. 


The  branches  heard  their  far-off  mirth 

And  swayed  with  laughter  to  and  fro  : 
The  servile  shadows  on  the  earth 
Made  sudden  mimicry  below. 

The  gray  winds  waited  everywhere 
To  peer  and  lurk,  and  in  despair 

Go  by  —  go  by  with  aged  cries  of  all  the  grief  the  world 
doth  know. 


xv 

And  when  at  last  no  bitter  strait 

Could  bring  me  any  wonderment, 
They  left  the  thousand  ways  of  hate, 
And  all  the  grievous  phantoms  went 
As  a  dark  dream  of  long  ago. 
I  saw  the  simple  stars  burn  low, 

Like  tapers,  held  of  weary  folk  that  slumber  when  their 
watch  is  spent. 


THE   WAYFARERS 


A  red,  red  rose,  the  early  sun 

Came  up,  as  glad  as  any  guest  ; 
A  white,  white  rose  whose  bloom  was  done, 
The  moon  did  wane  unto  the  west. 

The  waking  fields  breathed  warm  and  stirred 
Small  presences  of  song,  half  heard  ; 
The  wan  stars  closed  against  the  day  like  flowers  that 
fold   them  for  their  rest. 


And  suddenly  the  way  was  clear 

As  any  song  for  them  that  hark  ; 
And  One  sat,  like  the  singer,  there 
Where  every  wayfarer  must  mark. 
A  moment  all  my  soul  stood  dumb  ; 
And  then,  because  the  time  was  come, 
I    knew   her,    by  her  eyes   that    held  one   perfect  day, 
from  dawn  to  dark. 


XVIII 

She  sat  where  all  the  high-roads  meet 
And  all  the  striving  ways  are  one. 
The  dumb  sea  crept  unto  her  feet 

With  lowered  mane,  his  wrath  undone. 
The  voice  of  all  the  worlds  astir 
Sunk  to  the  past  at  sight  of  her. 

There  was  naught  left  but  her  blind  eyes  that  gazed  into 
the  climbing  sun. 


THE    WAYFARERS 


Surely  no  least  created  thing 

Was  mean,  to  her,  that  came  her  way  ; 
She  turned  her  from  the  worshipping 
Of  prostrate  earth,  of  seas  that  pray. 
She  turned  her  living  eyes  on  me  — 
Well  knew  I  then  she  might  not  see, 
And  yet  their  wide-enfolding  look  was  all  about  me,  like 
the  day. 


xx 

She  spake  :    "I  am  that  One  ye  sought 

Through  years  that  fade,  through  ways  that  wind. 
I  am  that  One  for  whom  ye  wrought 
The  lovely  names  ye  thought  to  find : 
'  Life,  the  Revealer,  when  we  reach 
Her  mother  knees,  shall  smile  to  teach 
Her  soul  to  us. '     And  would  I  not,  if  I  but  knew !     But 
I  am  blind. 


"Yet  by  the  stranger  gifts  ye  bring, 

And  by  your  alien  prayers  that  throng, 
I  know  I  am  not  that  ye  sing, 

The  little  dream  that  does  me  wrong. 
Ye  pray  me  that  I  shew  you  what 
My  one  name  is  :  I  know  it  not ; 

Only  I  know  I  am  not  Death,  I  am  not  Love,  I  am  not 
Song. 


8  THE    WAYFARERS 

xxn 

«« The  nations  come  to  me  from  far 
That  love  me  by  a  name  alone  ; 
And  the  dream  fails  them,  and  they  are 
Stricken  with  famine,  dream-undone. 
Ever  my  heart  cried  out  to  bless, 
To  shelter  all  their  loneliness  ; 

They  dreamed,  awakened,  went  their  ways,  —  oh,  years 
and  lonely  years  agone! 


"They  dream  I  sit  on  high,  afar, 

A  light  to  pierce  all  mystery  ; 
Untroubled  as  a  fixed  star 

That  heeds  no  sorrow  of  the  sea. 
Yet  stars  make  patient  pilgrimage 
Across  the  dark,  from  age  to  age  ; 

And  who  would  know  me  that  I  am,  must  take  my  hand 
and  go  with  me." 


XXIV 

Oh,  if  I  thought  to  answer  nay, 

Her  dear  eyes  did  not  understand  ; 
Wayfarers  two,  we  went  our  way 
From  hour  to  day,  across  the  land  ! 
Her  blindness  hid  the  dark  from  her  ; 
She  led  me,  leal  through  joy  and  fear  ; 
From  little  day  to  little  day  she  led  me  child-like,  hand 
in  hand. 


THE   WAYFARERS 


And  like  the  sweet  of  rain,  upheld 
All  tremulous  in  rose  half  curled, 
The  brimming  song  of  things  out-welled 
Promise  of  morrows  still  unfurled. 
Ever  the  wind  before  us  sped 
Some  mystery,  interpreted, 

And  lifted   faces  of  the   hills   did   beckon   us  across  the 
world. 


Oh,  step  by  step,  the  troubled  wood 

Spake  all  its  shadow  clear  to  us  ; 
And,  hand  in  hand,  the  lowlihood 
Of  wayside  weeds  grew  dear  to  us. 
The  shy  trees  leaned  to  us,  abloom, 
A  nest  called  soft  from  leafy  gloom, 
And   all  the  hidden  heart  of  things  beat  sudden,  warm, 
and  near  to  us. 


And  day  by  day,  grown  deep  apace, 
The  song  welled  over  to  our  need, 
And  all  that  mystic  heart  of  grace 
Enfolded  us  as  kin  indeed. 

The  simple-spoken  weeds,  that  sing 
So  wisely,  taught  us  everything 

Full  soft,  as  aged  stars  may  sing  low  to  the  childhood  of 
the  weed. 


10  THE    WAYFARERS 

XXVIII 

Sometimes  there  hovers  down  to  her, 
Portent  of  what  her  name  may  be, 
Like  any  humming-bird,  a  blur 
Of  music  and  of  glamourie  — 

Awing,  away  !     Sometimes  she  seems 
Houseless,  and  poor  of  all  but  dreams, 
Save  that  her  looks  are  crowned  with  all  the  patience  of 
a  sovereignty. 


Sometimes  a  passing  cloud  may  keep 
The  secret  white  and  unrevealed  ; 
Sometimes  it  haunts  the  wavering  sleep 
Of  a  forgetful  summer  field. 

Sometimes  the  lordly  winds  are  bold 
To  sing  of  godhead  lost  of  old  : 

And  I  would  think  her  Builder  of  the  world,  save  that 
her  eyes  are  sealed. 


xxx 

I  know  not  if  the  years  be  years, 

As,  great  and  small,  we  journey  on, 
Nor  if  the  service  of  the  spheres 

And  of  the  friendly  weeds  be  one.   .   . 
Like  singing  harvesters,  that  fare 
Weary  and  glad,  we  go  where'er 

She  leads  the  way,  with  strong,  blind  eyes,  that  dare  to 
gaze  into  the  sun. 


THEY    PASS 


THEY    PASS 


THE    SHEPHERD-GIRL 

WITHIN  the  twilight  on  the  hill, 
A  shepherd-girl  I  met ; 
And  she  was  weeping  as  she  went, 

Nor  may  I  well  forget 
The  darksome  eyes  she  lifted  up, 
That  bitter  tears  had  wet. 

"  My  sheep  are  all  astray,  astray  ; 

And  since  the  sun  arose, 
I  have  been  searching  all  the  land 

Beyond  the  meadow-close  ; 
And  all  my  sheep  are  gone  from  me, 

And  none  are  left  to  lose. 

"We  wandered,  all  the  summer  days, 

Where  any  cowslip  led. 
The  little  brook  came  with  us,  too, 

But  now  the  leaves  are  dead  ; 
The  winds  blow  chill  from  yonder  hill, 

And  it  is  dark,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  all  the  summer  days  I  piped 

An  answer  to  the  lark. 
My  lambs  were  growing  white  as  stars, 

And  fair  for  all  to  mark  ; 
And  they  have  left  me,  one  by  one," 

She  said,  "and  it  is  dark." 


1 4  THE    WAYFARERS 

"  Nay,  come,  thou  lonely  shepherd-girl, 
And  find  thy  sheep  with  me  ! 

The  yellow  moon  will  rise  full  soon, 
And  lend  her  light  for  thee. 

But  thou  art  weary,  wandering ; 

Thine  eyes  are  strange  to  $ee." 

"  Lad,  I  have  called  them  long  and  long  ; 

Only  an  echo  hears. 
The  grass  blows  gray  beneath  the  wind  — 

As  gray  as  far-off  years  ; 
And  even  if  the  moonlight  shone 

I  could  not  see,  for  tears." 


CARAVANS 

WHAT  bring  ye  me,  O  camels,  across  the  southern 
desert, 

The  wan  and  parching  desert,  pale  beneath  the  dusk  ? 
Ye  great  slow-moving  ones,  faithful  as  care  is  faithful, 
Uncouth  as  dreams  may  be,  sluggish  as  far-off  ships,  — 
What  bring  ye  me,  O  camels  ? 

'<  We  bring  thee  gold  like  sunshine,  saving  that  it  warms 

not  ; 

And  rarest  purple  bring  we,  as  dark  as  all  the  garnered 
Bloom  of  many  grape-vines  ;  and  spices  subtly  mingled 
For  a  lasting  savor  :   the  precious  nard  and  aloes  ; 
The  bitter  sweet  of  myrrh,  like  a  sorrow  having  wings  ; 
Ghostly  breath  of  lilies  bruised  —  how  white  they  were  !  — 
And  the  captive  life  of  many  a  far  rose-garden. 
Jewels  bring  we  hither,  surely  stars  once  fallen, 


ISOLATION  15 

Torn  again  from  darkness  :   the  sunlit  frost  of  topaz, 
Moon-fire  pent  in  opals,  pearls  that  even  the  sea  loves. 
Webs  of  marvel  bring  we,  broideries  that  have  drunken 
Deep  of  all  life-color  from  a  thousand  lives,  — 
Each  the  royal  cere-cloth  of  a  century. 
We  come  !     What  wouldst  thou  more  ?  " 

All  this  dust,  these  ashes,  have  ye  brought  so  far  ? 
All  these  days,  these  years,  have  I  waited  in  the  sun  ? 
I  would  have  had  the  winged  Mirage  of  yonder  desert. 

ISOLATION 

O   BROTHER  Planets,  unto  whom  I  cry, 
Know  ye,  in  all  the  worlds,  a  gladder  thing 
Than  this  glad  life  of  ours,  this  wandering 
Among  the  eternal  winds  that  wander  by  ? 
Ever  to  fly,  with  white  star-faces  set 
Quenchless  against  the  darkness,  and  the  wet 
Pinions  of  all  the  storms,  —  on,  on  alone, 

With  radiant  locks  outblown, 
And  sun-strong  eyes  to  see 
Into  the  sunless  maze  of  all  futurity  ! 

Not  ours  the  little  measure  of  the  years, 

The  bitter-sweet  of  summer  that  soon  wanes, 
The  briefer  benison  of  springtime  rains  ; 

Nay,  but  the  thirst  of  all  the  living  spheres, 

Full-fed  with  mighty  draughts  of  dark  and  light,  — 
The  soul  of  all  the  dawns,  the  love  of  night, 
The  strength  of  deathless  winters,  and  the  boon 

Of  endless  summer  noon. 
Look  down,  from  star  to  star, 
And  see  the  centuries  —  a  flock  of  birds,  afar. 


16  THE    WAYFARERS 

Afar  !     But  we,  each  one  God's  sentinel, 
Lifting  on  high  the  torches  that  are  His, 
Look  forth  to  one  another  o'er  the  abyss, 

And  cry,  Eternity,  —  and  all  is  well ! 
So  ever  journey  we,  and  only  know 
The  way  is  His,  and  unto  Him  we  go. 
Through  all  the  voiceless  desert  of  the  air, 
Through  all  the  star-dust  there, 
Where  none  has  ever  gone, 
Still  singing,  seeking  still,  we  wander  on  and  on. 


O  brother  Planets,  ye  to  whom  I  cry, 

Yet  hath  a  strange  dream  touched  me ;  for  a  cloud 
Flared  like  a  moth,  within  mine  eyes.      I  bowed 

My  head,  and,  looking  down  through  all  the  sky, 
I  saw  the  little  Earth,  far  down  below,  — 
The  Earth  that  all  the  wandering  winds  do  know. 
Like  some  ground-bird,  the  small,  beloved  one 

Fluttered  about  the  sun. 
Ah,  were  that  little  star 
Only  a  signal-light  of  love  for  us,  afar  ! 


THE   WOMAN    OF   THREE   SORROWS 

YE  would  have  wondered,  had  ye  felt 
Her  eyes  upon  your  eyes,  the  while  ; 
Ye  would  have  wondered,  had  ye  seen 
All  the  wan  glory  of  her  smile. 


THE    WOMAN    OF   THREE    SORROWS    17 

No  wonderment  was  in  her  eyes, 
No  bitterness  was  there,  awake, 
Only  a  dark  of  mystery  ; 
And  thus  the  Woman  spake  : 

"  Yea,  it  was  dark,  all  dark  :   no  light 
Even  from  sunset ;  near  or  far 
Glimmered  no  dawn,  nor  was  there  yet 
The  distant  pity  of  a  star. 

"  Yea,  it  was  cold :  no  passing  wind 
Hurried  the  chill  mist  to  and  fro  ; 
Blank  coldness  without  sound  or  stir 
Or  any  whispering  snow. 

"  Yea,  it  was  still  :  no  voice  of  pain 
Did  break  the  stillness  without  breath, 
Dumb  as  the  silence  twixt  the  worlds,. — 
The  great  mid-silence  we  name  Death. 

"  Nay,  but  what  say  I  ?     Now,  the  lights 
As  crosses  through  my  tears  I  see, 
Yet  know  I  they  are  lights  no  less  : 
How  should  ye  pity  me  ? 

"My  sorrow  was  the  lack  of  one 
My  life  lacks  yet,  in  whose  dear  stead 
The  Heart  of  all  the  earth  is  mine, 
And  mine,  mine  too,  are  all  its  dead. 

"My  sorrow  was  a  starving  mind 
That  craved  the  message  of  the  years  : 
Now,  like  a  child,  I  hear,  far-off, 
The  singing  of  the  spheres. 


1 8  THE    WAYFARERS 

"  My  sorrow  was,  I  had  not  one 
Of  all  the  world-gifts  that  may  bless  : 
I  go  my  way,  —  within  my  hands, 
Only  a  glorious  emptiness." 

The  Woman  held  her  sorrows  up, 
High  up  within  God's  sight,  and  said  : 
"  Lo,  for  Thy  gifts,  I  give  Thee  thanks  !  " 
And  smiled,  as  smile  the  dead. 


SPINNING  IN  APRIL 

MOON  in  heaven's  garden,    among  the  clouds  that 
wander, 

Crescent  moon  so  young  to  see,  above  the  April  ways, 
Whiten,  bloom  not  yet,  not  yet,  within  the  twilight  yonder  ; 
All  my  spinning  is  not  done,  for  all  the  loitering  days. 

Oh,  my  heart  has  two  wild  wings  that  ever  would  be  flying ! 
Oh,  my  heart's  a  meadow-lark  that  ever  would  be  free  ! 
Well  it  is  that  I  must  spin  until  the  light  be  dying  ; 
Well  it  is  the  little  wheel  must  turn  all  day  for  me  ! 

All     the    hill-tops     beckon,     and   beyond     the     western 

meadows 

Something  calls  me  ever,  calls  me  ever,  low  and  clear  : 
A  little  tree  as  young  as  I,  the  coming  summer  shadows,  — 
The  voice  of  running  waters  that  I  ever  thirst  to  hear. 


SPINNING   IN  APRIL  19 

Oftentime  the  plea  of  it  has  set  my  wings  a-beating  ; 
Oftentime  it  coaxes,  as  I  sit  in  weary  wise, 
Till  the  wild  life  hastens  out  to  wild  things  all  entreating, 
And  leaves  me  at  the  spinning-wheel,  with  dark,  unseeing 
eyes. 

Sing  the  while  I  spin,  my  wheel,  my  loyal  one,  a-hover 
Like  a  circling  humming-bird  that's  loath  to  leave  a  rose  ; 
Sing  and  keep  my  heart  at   home,  one   song,   again  and 

over, 
Like  a  summer  brook  that  ever  passes,  never  goes. 

Sing,  my  wheel.      To  wearied  eyes,  the  flax  within  my 

fingers 

Is  a  white  and  shining  cloud,  a  nest  to  hold  the  rain. 
Lo  !    the    earth   is   mine  to   bless,   and    not  a  rain-drop 

lingers  : 
Wings  for  all  the  hastening  shower  that  greets  the  world 

again  ! 

Laugh,    my   wheel.       The    rain    is    past ;  the    rainbow 

follows  after. 
All  the  sparrows  flutter  down  like  brown  leaves  from  the 

year. 

Glad  with  rain,  the  river  hastens  on,  a-glint  with  laughter, — 
Laughter  of  running  waters  that  I  ever  thirst  to  hear. 

Sing  and  turn  again,  my  wheel ;  the  afterglow  is  dimmer. 
Sing  and  keep  my  heart  at  home.  Thy  little  quiet  croon 
Is  like  the  soft  and  far-off"  voice  of  twilight  fields  a-glim- 

mer, 
Like  musing  waters  wandering  beneath  the  harvest  moon. 


zo  THE   WAYFARERS 

Hum,  my  wheel,  like  any  bee  close  folded  in  a  flower, 
Half  a  happy  captive  thing,  yet  tremulous  for  flight. 
Slow,  my  wheel,  sing  low,  my  wheel,  my  bee  within  a 

bower  ; 
Shadow  petals  fold  thee  in  ;  thou  shalt  not  flit  to-night. 

Ay,  for  thee,  my  spinning-wheel  !     And  hast  thou  wings 

a-flutter  ? 

Unseen  wings  that  beat  to  leave  the  spinning  all  undone  ?  — 
Leave  the  lowly  day  for  all  the  songs  thou  hast  to  utter, 
Born  of  the  dumb  heart  of  things  that  strive  to  find  the 

sun  ? 

Slow,  and  slow,  and  hush,  my  wheel ;  and  still  thy  wing 
less  sorrow. 

There  may  come,  as  guest  to  us,  some  great,  benignant 
Day 

To  greet  us  at  the  spinning  here  and  give  us  this  good- 
morrow  : 

"  Break,  thou  little  cage  of  her,  and  wing  the  bird  away !  " 


HORIZON 

MAKER  of  songs,  what  weariness 
Upon  thy  sleepless  eyelid  weighs  ? 
Maker  of  songs,  what  silence  lays 
Cold  hand  upon  thy  lips  that  bless  ? 

The  fallen  leaves  about  thy  feet 
Are  mute  beneath  the  questioning 

Of  air  that  finds  no  song  to  greet. 
Why  dost  thou  listen  and  not  sing  ? 


HORIZON  21 

We  cannot  see  the  dreams  that  rise 
Before  those  darkened  eyes  of  thine ; 

We  cannot  hear  the  voice  that  cries 
Unto  thy  silence,  all  divine. 

There  weighs  upon  our  eagerness, 

Our  straining  eyes  that  fain  would  see,  — 
Thoughts,  wingless,  that  would  follow  thee, 

Maker  of  songs,  what  weariness  ! 

"  Face  to  face  with  my  soul  there  stands 
A  Song  —  nor  may  I  call  her  name, 
Nor  know  from  what  far  place  she  came  ; 

I  may  not  take  her  by  the  hands. 

Not  wholly  wrought,  she  faces  me, 
But  like  an  image  incomplete, 

And  ever  smiles,  inscrutably, 

A  smile  whose  mystery  is  sweet. 

The  slow,  wan  smile  that  curves  her  lips 
Might  brood  upon  the  face  of  one 
Standing  forever  in  the  sun, 

A  watcher  of  the  unseen  ships. 

"  (O  lightless  eyes  whose  light  I  wait, 

Dim  smile  that  tells  of  listening, 
On  what  far  perfect  day  shall  fate 

Breathe  through  thy  soul  and  bid  thee  sing  ?) 
I  wait  the  nearing  mystery  ; 

Ye  look  to  me,  nor  understand. 

For  eyes  unborn  an  alien  land,  — 
So  Life  looks  out,  to  Death,  the  Sea." 


22  THE   WAYFARERS 


THE    FISHERS 

YEA,  we  have  toiled  all  night.     All  night 
We  kept  the  boats,  we  cast  the  nets. 
Nothing  avails  :   the  tides  withhold, 
The  Sea  hears  not,  and  God  forgets. 

Long  ere  the  sunset,  we  took  leave 

Of  them  at  home  whom  want  doth  keep  ; 

Now  bitterness  be  all  their  bread 

And  tears  their  drink,  and  death  their  sleep  ! 

The  gaunt  moon  stayed  to  look  on  us 

And  marvel  we  abode  so  still. 
Again  we  cast,  again  we  drew 

The  nets  that  nought  but  hope  did  fill. 

And  while  the  grasp  of  near  Despair 

Did  threaten  nearer  with  the  day, 
Leagues  out,  the  bounteous  silver-sides 

Leaped  through  the  sheltering  waves,  at  play  ! 

So,  stricken  with  the  cold  that  smites 

Death  to  a  dying  heart  at  morn, 
We  waited,  thralls  to  hunger,  such 

As  the  strong  stars  may  laugh  to  scorn. 

And  while  we  strove,  leagues  out,  afar, 
Returning  tides,  —  with  mighty  hands 

Full  of  the  silver  !  —  passed  us  by 
To  cast  it  upon  alien  lands. 


CANONIZED  23 

Against  the  surge  of  hope  we  stood 
And  the  waves  laughed  with  victory  ; 

Yet  at  our  heart-strings,  with  the  nets, 
Tugged  the  false  promise  of  the  Sea. 

So  all  the  night-time  we  kept  watch  ; 

And  when  the  years  of  night  were  done, 
Aflame  with  hunger,  stared  on  us 

The  fixed  red  eye  of  yonder  sun. 

Thou  Wanderer  from  land  to  land, 

Say  who  Thou  art  to  bid  us  strive 
Once  more  against  the  eternal  Sea  ' 

That  loves  to  take  strong  men  alive. 

Lo,  we  stood  fast,  and  we  endure : 
But  trust  not  Thou  the  Sea  we  know, 

Mighty  of  bounty  and  of  hate, 

Slayer  and  friend,  with  ebb  and  flow. 

Thou  hast  not  measured  strength  as  we 

Sea-faring  men  that  toil.     .     .     And  yet  — 

Once  more,  once  more  —  at  Thy  strange  word, 
Master,  we  will  let  down  the  net  ! 


CANONIZED 

THERE  by  the  wayside,  so  she  ever  stood, 
Shadowed  and  small,  unwitting  of  the  sky, 
Nought  but  a  little  lorn  beatitude 
To  pray  to  and  pass  by. 


24  THE   WAYFARERS 

So  young  she  was,  not  all  the  grievous  rain 

That  wept  to  her  had  ever  taught  her  tears  ; 
Yet  no  May  morning  kindled  blue  again 
Her  wide  eyes,  dulled  with  years. 


So  cold  she  was  with  vigil  —  the  one  care 

To  be  a  steadfast  saint,  she  did  not  know 
Vines  called  to  her  ;  her  hands  held  unaware 
The  mocking  gift  of  snow. 

Life  was  not  life  to  her  :   she  dimly  saw 

Dim  flocks  gone  by,  and  herdsmen  weary -dull, 
And  loitering  children,  to  whose  brimming  awe 
She  seemed  all-beautiful. 


Time  was  not  time  to  her  :   she  heard,  content, 

The  hour,  like  one  more  prayer-bead,  slipped  along 
A  rosary  of  vigil  never  spent, 
Matins  and  even-song. 

Was  it  because  she  knew  not  how  to  stir 

An  empty  hand,  and  beckon  gladness  come,  — 
The  winged  secret  spread  its  wings  to  her 
And  took  her  heart  for  home  ? 


For  close  as  silence,  rounded  as  a  song, 

Built  sure  within  the  quiet  of  her  breast,  — 
Shy  sanctuary,  all  the  year  has  clung 
A  brown  deserted  nest. 


CANONIZED  25 

Surely  she  woke  to  find  the  world  at  spring, 

And  all  her  sainthood  quickened  with  the  rime  ; 
Surely  there  came  to  her  on  rain-soft  wing, 
Love,  for  a  summer-time. 

Query,  and  heart-beat,  and  the  eager  stress 

Of  sunward  wings  made  wise  her  solitude  ; 
Love,  and  the  warm  content  of  littleness 
With  her  maid-motherhood. 


Since  when  she  stands  as  patiently  adream 

With  empty  hands  outheld,  that  make  no  stir, 
All  in  a  long  last-year  :  it  well  may  seem 
Time  is  not  time  to  her. 

And  yet  she  knows  the  plea  of  vines  that  call, 

The  weariness  of  folk  that  pass,  with  eyes 
Outlooking  on  the  burden  of  them  all, 
Awakened,  warm,  and  wise. 

O  wind  of  summer,  blow  her  songs  of  thine  ; 

O  winds  of  winter,  look  ye  spare  alone 
One  nest,  not  now  too  lordly  for  a  shrine, 
—  Since  all  the  birds  are  flown. 


26  THE   WAYFARERS 


THE  WEAVERS 

ALL  day  I  walk  among  the  crowd, 
Seeking  the  Weavers.      Well  I  wot 
This  noonday,  staring  blank  and  hot, 
Is  not  for  them  ;  yet  in  a  cloud 
Of  men  I  wander  —  call  aloud. 
All  day  I  seek,  and  find  them  not. 

Lo,  every  night  the  Weavers  come, 
And  one  by  one,  and  silently, 
With  eyes  down-looking  timidly, 
They  steal  into  the  darkening  room, 
Bent  forms  and  eld  against  the  gloom, 
With  faces  gray  as  mystery. 

Dim  faces  have  the  Weavers,  —  eyes 
Of  patience  that  do  seem  to  shun 
The  waning  light,  as  one  by  one 
They  come  what  way  the  shadow  lies, 
Like  long  imprisoned  memories 
That  dare  not  look  upon  the  sun. 

With  flickering  smiles  of  gentleness, 
Finger  on  lip,  they  come  :  and  soon 
Beneath  the  shuttle's  lowly  croon 
The  silence  groweth  less  and  less, 
As  dusk  before  the  loveliness 
Of  a  slow-rising  summer  moon. 


THE   WEAVERS  27 

The  shuttle  hummeth.      Hovering 
Across  the  threads,  as  dark  to  see 
As  falling  rain  at  dusk  may  be, 
It  poiseth  like  a  winged  thing 
Upon  the  web  ;  its  murmuring 
Is  silence  wrapt  in  melody. 

The  shuttle  hummeth.     A  slant  gleam 

Of  moonlight  wavereth  along 

The  faces  of  the  Weaver  throng, 

Their  uncouth  shapes :   else  would  ye  deem 

They  were  not  there,  —  so  doth  there  seem 

Nought  save  the  shuttle's  growing  song. 

Lo,  a  gray  pallor  on  the  loom 
Waxeth  apace,  —  a  glamourie 
Like  dawn  outlooking,  pale  to  see 
Before  the  sun  hath  burst  to  bloom  ; 
Wan  beauty,  growing  out  of  gloom, 
With  promise  of  fair  things  to  be. 

The  shuttle  singeth.      And  a  mist 
Of  rainbow  hangeth  there  anon, 
Passing  away  ere  it  hath  shone, 
To  leave  a  bloom  of  amethyst, 
Quick  fading,  too  :   ye  had  not  wist 
Ye  saw  it  clear,  ere  it  was  gone. 

The  shuttle  singeth.      And  fair  things 
Upon  the  web  do  come  and  go  ; 
Dim  traceries  like  clouds  ablow 
Fade  into  cobweb  glimmerings, 


28  THE   WAYFARERS 

A  silver,  fretted  with  small  wings,  — 
The  while  a  voice  is  singing  low. 

It  warmeth  into  living  gold 

As  cowslips  open  in  the  sun  ; 

It  burneth  bright,  and  one  by  one 

Across  the  sea-rim,  ships  of  old 

Pass  by,  pass  by,  like  stars  in  fold. 

(Who  singeth  ere  the  web  be  done  ?) 

The  ships  they  sail  through  moon  and  star, 

Across  the  shimmering  weft  of  sea. 

The  iris-winged  argosy, 

Unharbored  of  all  ports  that  are, 

Sinketh  into  the  sun,  afar, 

As  in  the  cowslip  doth  the  bee. 

The  quiet  yieldeth  up  its  sweet 
To  a  great  laughter  ;  winds  arise  ; 
Wild  birds  awaken  alien  skies, 
And  in  a  tremulous  outer  heat 
The  pulses  of  the  summer  beat 
To  the  deep  hum  of  dragon-flies. 

Light  cometh  yet,  and  changing  hues 
Of  promise  ;  and  the  burning  thread, 
Like  restless  opal,  fain  would  wed 
The  creeping  smoke  of  filmy  blues. 
One  ruddy  spark,  alight,  doth  fuse 
All  cojor  in  a  dawn  of  red. 


THE   WEAVERS  29 

(Who  singeth  ?)   Oh,  thou  rose  of  flame, 
Like  a  face  smiling  as  to  bless, 
Out-burning  from  a  shadow  tress 
Of  dark,  — a  glory  without  name  : 
It  bloweth  swiftly  as  it  came, 
Rose  of  immortal  happiness  ! 

"  Lo,  the  Life-glory,  it  hath  come  !  " 
Ah,  Soul,  who  laughed  aloud  at  thee  ? 
Nay,  not  the  Weavers.      Mystery  ! 
Was  it  a  shuttle,  broken,  dumb  ? 
Nought  is  there,  nought  in  all  the  room 
Save  daylight  and  its  vacancy. 

Last  night  the  Weavers  came  and  went. 
Ay  me,  so  fair  a  web  was  wrought, 
All  winged  hopes  within  it  caught ! 
And  ere  the  colors  were  forespent 
The  blank  day  snatched  the  joy  they  lent, 
Day,  staring  like  a  thing  distraught. 

I  seek  the  Weavers.      As  I  go, 
All  faces  save  their  own  I  see, 
But  not  their  gentle  company,  — 
Never  their  smiles  that  jlicker  so. 
Theirs  are  the  only  eyes  I  know  ; 
All  other  folk  are  strange  to  me. 


3o  THE   WAYFARERS 


ONE    PASSES   IN   THE   DARK 

THE  white  stars,  one  by  one, 
Lean  out  of  their  casement  high  ; 
And  the  lily-cup  is  folded  up, 

And  the  moon-clouds  wander  by. 
Come  hither,  ye  little  wildwood  things, 
Unto  the  call  the  night-wind  sings 
Over  the  brooding  sky. 
Ours  is  the  noon 
Of  the  fairer  moon,  — 
And  a  voice  in  the  dark  am  I. 

Morning  will  come  to  greet 
A  little  new  rose,  I  wis  ; 
But  the  loving  air  that  heard  it  ope 

Hath  welcomed  it  with  a  kiss. 
And  the  clouds  with  the  white  up-gathering  hands, 
Bringing  the  rain  from  far-off  lands, 

They  sing  as  they  wander  by  : 
All  are  awake 
For  singing's  sake  ;  — 
A  voice  in  the  dark  am  I. 

What  shall  ye  hear  by  day  ? 

The  tread  of  a  thousand  feet. 
Come  but  here  when  the  night  is  near 

And  listen,  and  find  it  sweet. 
The  voice  of  the  things  ye  dream  are  dumb  : 
The  murmur  of  living,  the  water's  hum, 


ONE   PASSES   IN  THE   DARK  31 

And  the  growing  of  the  grass  ! 

Voices  of  all, 

In  the  night  they  call : 
A  voice  am  I  that  pass. 

The  tremor  of  moths  that  flit, 

The  laughter  of  leaves  that  blow, 
And  the  hurtling  wings  of  a  wind  that  sings, 

And  the  bending  of  grass  below  ; 
The  little  white  voice  of  a  flower  unborn 
That  shall  not  blossom  for  many  a  morn  ; 
Yet  it  grows  all  steadfastly  ; 
Under  the  night, 
It  feels  the  light 
Of  stars  in  an  unseen  sky. 

The  little  hastening  hare 

Listens,  with  anxious  ear, 
To  know  if  the  Day  be  on  her  way, 

Day  that  must  never  hear. 
Chameleons  shy,  and  the  hidden  bird, 
The  silver  lizards,  all  these  be  heard 

In  their  strange  and  wilding  speech. 
If  ye  but  hark, 
They  sing  at  dark, 
To  the  night  that  loves  them,  each. 

Who  passes  beneath  ?      Who  sings  f 

A  voice  that  may  live  or  die. 
Let  the  only  thing  ye  know  of  me 

Be  the  song  that  wanders  by. 


3z  THE   WAYFARERS 

Come  hither,  ye  little  living  things  ; 
Sing  with  me  now  as  each  star  sings, 

Each  star  in  the  beckoning  sky ; 
For  the  day  must  come 
And  we  be  dumb,  — 
And  a  voice  in  the  dark  am  I. 


DREAMS 

"  >  I  MJE  little  Singer  sitteth  by  the  gate 

J_    Beneath  the  sun,"  they  said, 
"  With  lightless  eyes,  as  one  sits  desolate  : 

And  round  about  her  head 
The  birds  all  flutter  wonderingly  and  wait, 
Wait  for  their  daily  bread. 

"  What  dark  hath  come  to  shadow  with  its  gray 

Her  morning  sky  ?     What  drouth 
Hath  seized  upon  the  blossoms  in  her  way  ? 

Why  is  her  singing  mouth 
Dumb  as  the  woods  are  dumb,  a  winter  day,  — 

The  birds  flown  to  the  south  ? 

"  God's  child  the  little  Singer  is  ;  and  why 

Sitteth  she  here  alone  ?  — 
The  sunshine  beating  white  from  yonder  sky, 

The  dawn  to  noonday  grown, 
The  songless  people  passing  songless  by,  — 

The  birds  all  hither  flown  ?  " 


DREAMS  33 

Her  weary  eyelids  fluttered,  flower-wise  ; 

She  raised  her  listless  head 
And  looked  upon  them  all  with  darkened  eyes 

And  slowly  spoke,  and  said, 
Clear,  through  the  scattered  sweetness  of  bird-cries, 

"  One  of  my  birds  is  dead." 

And  there  was  flitting,  all  about  her  face, 

Of  restless  beating  wings  ; 
And  hungry  sparrows  clamored  her  for  grace 

With  mellow  questionings. 
She  spoke  again,  after  a  little  space, 

And  spoke  through  flutterings. 

"  One  of  my  birds  hath  died,"  she  said,  "  and  ye 

Who  have  not  seen  my  bird, 
How  should  ye  know  how  fleet  his  wings  could  be, 

Or  what  new  visions  stirred 
And  wakened  at  his  summer  melody,  — 

Ye  who  have  never  heard  ? 

"  Oh,  he  had  reached  the  sun  in  one  long  flight, 

Had  he  but  lived  to  fly  ! 
Have  I  not  seen  him  overtake  the  night 

In  yonder  smiling  sky  ? 
Did  not  my  thoughts  go  with  him  to  the  light, 

My  winged  thoughts  and  I  ? 

"  God's  child  am  I,  —  and  what  to  me  the  years  ?  " 

The  little  Singer  said, 
"  Safe  in  my  littleness,  from  any  fears, 

Because  my  steps  are  led,  — 
God's  child  and  happy,  singing  through  my  tears ; 

But  this  my  bird  is  dead. 


34  THE   WAYFARERS 

"  Cold  wings  and  songless  throat ;  nay  then,  look  ye  !  " 

She  said  to  them,  and  seemed 
To  reach  soft-hollo  wed -hands,  for  all  to  see, 

But  empty,  as  they  deemed. 
And  each  to  each  they  murmured  wonderingly, 

"The  little  Singer  dreamed." 

"  A  dream,  ye  say  ?     But  how  is  it  ye  tell 

A  dream  from  life  ?  "  she  said. 
"  Name  it  a  dream,  this  sorrow  that  befell, 

A  dream  or  life  instead  ; 
But  once  the  bird  was  mine,  I  know  full  well : 

And  now  my  bird  is  dead." 

She  bent  her  head  beneath  the  noonday  glare 

In  silence,  weary-wise. 
The  birds,  like  snow-flakes  lighting  unaware, 

Sang  clamorous  replies  ; 
Among  them  all,  the  little  Singer  there 

Sat  silent,  with  closed  eyes. 


ONE    THAT    FOLLOWED 

I  LI  FT  my  heart  up  in  the  sun 
To  show  Thee  all  its  song,  — 
A  morning  nest  of  birds  for  Thee 

To  whom  the  birds  belong  ; 
I  lift  it  up,  I  bid  it  sing 

Against  the  winds  that  throng. 


ONE   THAT   FOLLOWED  35 

It  needs  must  be  a  little  gift  ; 

And  yet,  since  we  are  free, 
Earth-children  with  the  lordly  winds 

That  bear  us  company, 
Right  fain  we  are,  with  nought  but  this, 

To  follow  after  Thee. 

What  later  offering  of  myrrh 

It  may  be  mine  to  bring, 
I  know  not  yet,  I  would  not  know,  — 

Pain  is  so  gray  a  thing  ; 
And  sure  the  dying  day  may  leave 

No  heart  in  me  to  sing  ! 

I  know  not  yet  how  soon,  how  long 

It  may  be  mine  to  fight  ; 
What  standard  won  with  blood  I  may 

Lift  high  before  Thy  sight ; 
I  bring  Thee  but  the  sunlit  sword 

I  may  grasp,  blind,  to-night. 

Knowing  Thee  Lord  of  gladnesses 

That  spring  in  April  wise, 
Who  lovest  all  the  eager  things 

In  wood  and  sea  and  skies, 
I  shake  the  tears  from  off  my  heart, 

And  the  rain  from  out  mine  eyes. 

But  never  be  it  said  of  me, 

I  loitered  by  the  way  ;  — 
Spent  all  the  glad  light  wandering 

As  any  sea-gull  may, 
And  fled  to  Thee  for  shelter,  late, 

With  the  disheartened  day. 


36  THE   WAYFARERS 

Lord  Christ,  Lord  Love,  we  bring  to  Thee 

Our  joy  at  earliest, 
The  joy  of  the  unknowing  day 

That  looks  unto  the  west. 
Now  who  will  bear  us  company 

Upon  the  morning  quest  ? 


A    WATER-CARRIER 

(He  speaks) 

WOULD  they  bring  hither  all  their  thirst  to  me, 
If  they  but  knew,   I   wonder.     .     .      There  the 
path 

Lurks  unsuspected,  like  a  trodden  thing 
Subtle  with  pain,  some  lizard,  dusty  dim, 
That  creeps  a  weary  way  beneath  the  noon 
And  turns  unto  the  desert,  very  sure 
That  none  will  follow. 

Oh,  my  wilderness 

Without  a  promise,  save  for  who  must  find 
A  sweetness  in  the  sand  !  Where  nothing  grows 
But  light  too  far  to  gather,  —  in  the  east 
One  early  rose,  and  in  the  west  one  rose  ; 
Dank  shadows  thick  as  weeds,  and  oftentime 
Petals  of  cloud  soft  shed  from  fields  of  heaven. 
Stern  garden  of  no  promise  !     Yet  I  found, 
Long  since,  the  hidden  spring  that  none  doth  know 
Save  I  who  hollowed  out  the  eager  sand, 
Rushing  to  drink,  and  ringed  the  place  with  stone. 


A   WATER-CARRIER  37 

There  the  cool  boon  wells  up  from  starless  dark, 
(Song-sparkle  struck  like  fire  from  speechless  flint  !  ) 
Forever  answering,  with  tranquil  look, 
The  tranquil  look  of  skies  like  summer  sea, 
Where  nothing  but  a  slow  bird,  half  a-dream, 
Ripples  the  silence.      There,  sole  creature  joy, 
Leaning  her  dear  locks  over  to  look  down 
Upon  the  well,  —  eternal  newcomer 
Soft-singing  to  the  heart  of  loneliness,  — 
The  one  Palm  muses. 

(ffe  sinks') 
Yea,  I  call 

Unto  you,  ye  people  all, 

Unto  you,  ye  passers-by  ! 
Come  and  try 

What  sweet  things  the  water  saith 

Of  a  pool  where  wandereth 

Star  or  shadow,  drifting  by. 

Softer  than  a  ringdove's  coo 

It  shall  bubble  forth  for  you  ; 

Brighter  than  the  ringdove's  neck, 

When  he  flutters,  at  the  beck 

Of  the  sunshine  after  rain, 

Down  unto  the  pool  and  dips. 

Answer  for  your  thirsty  lips, 

Sudden  wings  for  pain, 

Bounty  that  is  fain  to  bless, 

Shadow  for  your  weariness 

That  no  eve  may  bring  again  ! 

Drink,  if  ye  would  know  the  laughter 

Of  the  brown  earth,  after 
Rain  ! 


38  THE   WAYFARERS 

I  have  been  heedful  of  the  boon,  be  sure,  — 

Walking  in  fear  lest  my  way-weariness 

Should  quench  the  tremulous  laughter  that  I  bring  ; 

Guarding  it  jealously  from  dust  and  drought 

And  covetous  thirst  of  noontide.      Yea,  sometimes 

When  the  jars  weighed  like  heaven,  too  great  and  hot 

Resting  upon  my  head,  too  many  stars 

To  poise  so  high  above  a  parching  world, 

I  have  shut  close  my  heart  lest  there  should  steal 

Some  bitter  fragrance  from  heart's  bitterness, 

Such  as  the  weeds  may  loosen  at  nightfall, 

Wearied.     .     .     But  still  the  clay  holds  fast  its  sweet, 

Like  silence  ;  and  ye  know  not,  for  ye  come 

And  ask  the  water,  and  ye  drink  of  it, 

And  take  strange  coolness  of  it,  —  a  glad  thing  ! 

Sometimes  I  think  I  pour  my  very  joy 

Out  with  the  draught,  since  gladness  follows  it 

As  sea-bird  after  sail ;  and  there  is  left 

T.  he  empty  heart,  like  any  earthen  jar, 

It  is  so  heavy.     .     . 

Yea,  I  call 

Unto  you,  ye  people  all ; 

Hearken,  hearken,  passers-by  ! 

Forth  the  eager  water  gushes, 

Like  a  wind  among  the  rushes, 

Laughter  set  at  liberty  ! 
Would  ye  know 

Whence  it  came  to  glisten  so  ? 

Ask  of  all  the  stars  that  glisten, 

With  the  dark  at  ebb  and  flow. 
Listen,  listen  : 

All  the  coolness  of  a  dream, 


PITY  39 


All  the  mist  of  things  that  seem 
Only  made  to  smile  and  go  ! 
Hearken  what  the  water  sings, 
Mindful  of  its  wanderings 
Ere  it  nested  in  the  jars  : 
Lilies  slow  that  came  to  pass, 
Warm  contentment  of  the  grass 
And  the  memory  of  stars. 
Soothsay  of  the  earth  and  skies 
Treasured  so  to  make  you  wise : 
All  the  garnered  sweet  of  things, 
*  Winged  so  to  give  you  wings, 
Swift  from  out  a  caging  sorrow 
Towards  the  beckoning  to-morrow, 
—  Wings  ! 


PITY 

ALONG  the  dawn  the  little  star  went  singing, 
Low-poised  and  clear  to  see, 
Shaking  the  light,  like  drops  of  May-dew,  clinging 

Her  bright  locks  mistily. 
Like  any  snow-Jlake  faded  in  the  winging, 
Her  voice  fell  white  to  me. 


"  O  winds  of  Earth,  that  sorrow  as  ye  fly 

And  take  no  rest, 
Why  go  ye  ever  seeking,  with  that  cry, 

Some  ruined  nest  ? 


4o  THE   WAYFARERS 

"  Why  weep,  my  world  ?  Ah,  strange  and  sad  thou  art, 

Thou  far-off  one, 
The  saddest  wanderer  that  hath  warmed  her  heart 

At  yonder  sun. 

"  And  I  would  give  thee  comfort,  if  I  might, 

That  know  not  how  ; 
Haply  I  see  not  far,  for  all  the  light 

About  my  brow. 

"  But  who  shall  be  thy  sister,  sorrowing  ? 

Ah  me  !     Not  I, 
That  wander  in  a  bond  of  joy  and  sing, 

And  know  not  why,  — 

"Along  the  dawn,  across  unfathomed  deep, 

Unspent,  unbowed, 
Through  shallows  of  the  moonlight,  thin  as  sleep, 

Through  fields  of  cloud. 

"  Poor  world,  thou  aged  world,  I  only  know 

That  I  am  led 
A  songful  journey  :   art  not  thou  ?     Nay,  so, 

Be  comforted." 

Along  the  dawn  the  little  star  went,  winging 

Glad  ways  across  the  wild, 
Shaking  the  light  that  clung  to  her,  enringing,  — 

An  unremembering  child. 
Wide  arms  of  morning  gathered  her,  still  singing  : 

And  the  Earth  saw,  and  smiled. 


BIRD   OF  YESTERDAY  41 

BIRD  of  yesterday, 
Art  thou flying  south? 
Wilt  tbou  leave  life's  winter 
For  time's  drouth  ? 

Bird  of  yesterday, 

In  some  eternal  spring, 
Wilt  thou,  like  a  song's  ghost, 

Stay,  —  and  sing  ? 


IDYLS 


IDYLS 


THE  WATCHING  OF  PENELOPE 

"  I  cannot  rest  from  travel:   I  will  drink 

Life  to  the  lees."  (Tennyson's  Ulysses.') 

The  Aged  Penelope  and  a  Handmaiden. 

AH  me,  day  follows  day,  and  Spring  returns, 
Never  to  bring  my  gladness  with  the  leaves. 
Can  she  have  lost  her  youth  along  with  me  ? 
Or  are  these  barren  rocks  more  loath  to  hail 
Her  coming  than  of  old  ?     Ah,  child,  ah,  maid  !  — 
I  see  Spring.cn  thy  forehead,  and  about 
The  young  rose  of  thy  mouth  :   so  there  is  Spring 
Still,  sometimes.      Lead  me  forth,  Arsinoe. 

So  hath  the  Sea  smiled  on  me,  vacantly, 

For  centuries      .      .      .      nay,  nay,  for  many  days  ; 

The  aged  speak  thus.      Yet,  thou  knowest  well, 

All  thine  own  life-time  I  have  looked  on  it, 

Counting  the  years  as  sails  that  creep  apace, 

Always  to  sink  ;  and  the  Sea  grows  not  old. 

Thy  master  tarries  long  away  from  me. 

Yet  men  are  ever  so,  girl,  —  stanch  in  war, 

Faithful  to  chance,  forever  led  away 

By  some  strange  thirst  of  wandering  ;  always  fain 

To  waste  their  lives  in  seeking  farther  things, 

Until,  the  while  a  shadow  beckons  them, 

The  true  Life  softly  slips  her  fingers  out 

From  their  loose  clasp,  and  leaves  them  to  a  dream. 

It  is  not  so  with  my  Telemachus  : 

Wise  ruler  he,  even  in  his  father's  stead, 


46  THE   WAYFARERS 

Ay,  faithful  son  to  me,  and  kingly  man. 

A  man,  in  sooth  !  —  no  more  a  little  lad 

To  hearken  here,  with  lifted  eyes  alight, 

To  stories  of  his  father's  deeds  in  war ; 

No  more  a  youth.      I  am  grown  old  indeed, 

Old,  old  ;  and  haply  he,  thine  absent  King, 

Returning  some  far  day,  would  know  me  not,  — 

So  hath  long  watching  changed  me,  —  but  would  say 

To  some  one  of  my  maidens,  thee,  perchance, 

"  What  wrinkled  shade  is  this  ye  wait  upon  ?  " 

And  hear  thee  say,  "The  Queen,  Penelope." 

Yet  hath  thy  master  found  eternal  youth  ? 

So  seemed  it  once,  that  ever-wondrous  day  ! 

Ah,  in  what  guise  he  came  before  me  first, 

Infirm,  brow-bent,  led  by  the  swineherd  here  ; 

A  beggar,  mark  !      And  I,  whose  straining  eyes 

Had  watched  for  twenty  years,  I  knew  him  not. 

Bethink  thee,  all  those  mornings,  year  on  year, 

How  I  had  watched  the  cold  eyes  of  the  Sea 

For  any  promise,  —  weaving  the  day  fair 

With  thread  of  hope,  an  endless  web  to  weave 

And  ravel  into  shreds  again,  with  tears, 

And  weave  once  more.      Once  more  the  sun  would  rise 

Bright  as  a  far-off  sail,  —  nay,  not  so  bright, 

Until  the  Sea  that  hateth  all,  even  me, 

Stared  mine  eyes  dim.      And  so  I  knew  him  not. 

Bethink  thee,  maid  :  a  sovereign's  right  is  his, 
The  man's  will  ever  his,  to  come  and  go 
And  wander  whither  hope  may  call  afar, 
For  rumor  of  great  deeds  doth  follow  him 
As  the  foam  whitens  in  his  good-ship's  wake. 


DAPHNE   LAUREA  47 

Bethink  thee,  when  thou  weavest  with  the  maids, 
The  man's  it  is  to  change  the  face  o'  the  world  ; 
The  woman' s  part  to  listen  and  to  wait. 

Who  is  it  stirreth  on  the  hillside  there  ? 

(Would  he  but  come  again  in  any  wise, 

Or  King  or  beggar,  I  should  know  him  now.) 

Were  it  a  stranger,  —  hasten  hither,  girl,  — 

He  must  have  shelter  for  thy  master's  sake; 

Bid  him  come  hither.      No  one,  sayest  thou  ? 

The  shadow  of  a  cloud  :   mine  eyes  are  dim, 

But  look  abroad  xagain,  I  saw  a  sail  — 

A  sail  far  out  to  sea  there  :   dost  not  thou  ? 

Nay,  strain  thine  eyes,  far  out.      Yet  in  good  sooth, 

I  know  not  whether  it  be  far  or  near, 

I  only  saw  the  white  in  yonder  blue. 

What  sayest  thou  ?     A  sea-bird,  flying  low  ? 

A  sea-bird.      .      .      But  look  forth,  Arsinoe, 

Look  forth  once  more  for  me  :   thine  eyes  are  young, 

This  blue  is  endless. 

Dost  thou  see  no  sail  ? 


DAPHNE  LAUREA 

"  Arbor  eris  certe  .  .   .  mea." 

WAS  it  not  well,  Apollo,  for  revenge 
Of  thine,  my  stronghold  should  imprison  me  ! 
Surely  thou  art  content.      No  dream  of  thine 
For  mockery,  because  I  loved  thee  not, 
Could  have  matched  bitterness  with  this,  this  spell 
That  holds  me  fast,  in  answer  to  my  prayer. 


48  THE   WAYFARERS 

For  had  my  sire  Peneus  taken  thought, 

To  put  upon  me  some  enchanted  shape 

Of  river-waters,  that  had  been  glad  life  ! 

I  would  have  fled,  for  very  joy  of  flight, 

Down  the  cool  dusk  of  Tempe  with  the  days, 

Singing  and  singing  to  the  reeds  that  sing, 

Free  as  I  was  of  old,  and  yet  more  free 

From  such  as  thou.      .      .      I  would  have  laughed  aloud 

With  all  the  laughing  leaves  —  yet  loitered  not, 

Ever  apace  with  time  that  never  stays,  — 

Forever  winged  with  a  glad  escape  ! 

None  should  have  followed,  save  the  breathless  wind, 

As  some  slim  hound  that  follows  to  the  chase. 

I  would  have  pricked  the  darkness  like  a  star, 

Holding  forth  silver  hands  of  welcoming 

To  the  poor  sweetness  of  the  meadow  weeds  ; 

The  river-lilies  should  have  stirred  from  sleep, 

Fain  to  set  sail  like  little  winged  ships 

Against  the  anchoring  root  that  held  them  fast. 

I  would  have  called  unto  the  untamed  things 

That  love  the  shadows  :    "  Come,  four-footed  ones, 

Come  hither,  hither  !   Drink  ye,  —  be  at  peace  : 

Daphne,  who  hunts  you  not,  would  pledge  you  love 

In  this  cool  gift."      .      .      I  would  have  fed  the  roots 

Of  growing  things,  —  of  wistful  trees  that  lean 

Unto  the  water,  even  as  I,  —  as  I 

That  am  not  Daphne,  but  a  thirsty  tree. 

Ay  me,  for  rain  ! 

When  did  I  think  to  stand 

Blinded  with  twilight,  reaching  out  vague  hands 
Through  small,  thick  shadows,  —  listening  with  all  leaves, 


DAPHNE    LAUREA  49 

Soft  breathing  in  the  sky,  in  wait  for  her, 

My  lady  Moon  ?      Hath  she  forgotten  me  ? 

Since  nevermore  I  serve  her  in  the  day 

At  chase,  before  she  leave  her  pleasuring 

To  measure  us  the  night.      When  will  she  come  ? 

Even  at  the  close  of  such  a  fevered  day, 

But  happy  then,  I  lingered  through  the  woods, 

Weary  with  hunting  ;   and  I  laid  me  down 

Under  the  shelter  of  a  little  tree, 

And  left  it  without  thanks.      I  did  not  know 

It  was  my  sister  made  me  welcome  there. 

Ay  me,  for  rain  !      .      .      I  had  not  ever  thought 

To  look  so  long'upon  a  careless  cloud 

Grazing  on  light  in  pastures  of  the  sky  ; 

I  had  not  thought  to  tremble,  when  it  came, 

For  joy  of  all  the  bounty  of  glad  rain, 

Thrilling  my  leaves  to  laughter  as  the  hands 

Of  a  minstrel  thrill  the  harp-strings,  that  the  breath 

Of  a  new  life  awakes  them,  and  they  sing,  — 

Sing,  and  give  back  the  joy  in  rain  of  song. 

Yea,  thou  art  lord  of  singers,  Apollo.      Yet 
Think  not  I  bend.      For  Song  is  lord  of  thee, 
Song,  that  is  thrall  not  to  the  deathless  gods, 
But  bloweth  ever  as  the  uncaged  wind,  — 
Strong  shaper  of  the  Earth,  and  measurer 
Even  of  thy  strength,  Apollo  !  Yea,  I  know  ; 
Song,  the  first-breath,  that  bloweth  through  us  all, 
Encompasseth  the  universe  and  thee,  — 
Even  Olympus  also.      Am  not  I 
A  little  part  of  all  this  life  of  the  Earth  ? 
Have  I  not  heard  the  dim  and  secret  thing 


50  THE    WAYFARERS 

Our  Mother  whispers,  even  in  her  sleep  ? 

Once  I  had  given  no  heed  :   now,  being  held  fast, 

With  sad  roots  ever  seeking  in  the  dark, 

And  leaves  at  parley  with  the  nights  and  days, 

I  feel  her  heart  abeat,  and,  being  her  own, 

I  know.      Then  crown  thy  lyre,  if  thou  wilt  so, 

With  my  unwilling  leaves.      And  let  them  be 

Symbol,  to  men,  of  triumph  ;  nay,  but  hear  ;  — 

To  thee,  memorial  that  I  whisper  now  : 

The  eternal  thing  thou  shalt  not  overtake, 

Token  of  Daphne  whom  thou  couldst  not  thrall, 

And  Song  that  hath  the  sovereignty,  —  not  thou  ! 


ORPHEUS  IN  HADES 

DOST  thou  remember  how,  before  he  came, 
None  might  have  said  unto  another  Shade, 
Dost  thou  remember  ?     Lethe  held  our  hearts 
As  snowfall  covers  chill  the  wearied  roots 
Of  bloom  once  live,  and  glad,  and  full  of  breath, 
When  all  the  Earth  is  stark  and  white  with  dream, 
And  men  say,  "It  is  dead." 

But  when  he  came 

The  trance  of  snow  was  troubled.      Lake  the  Spring, 
I  felt  sweet  stir  of  long-forgotten  roots, 
Soft  wakening  in  darkness,  and  afraid. 
Ever  the  air  grew  warmer,  drew  a  breath 
Against  the  immortal  heart-throb  of  the  strings  ; 
Till  with  some  portent  like  a  thunder-burst, 
My  sleep  was  rifted.      .      .      There  stood  I,  agaze, 
With  them  that  gathered  round  him  where  he  sang, 
Bright  as  a  torch  in  the  bewildered  eyes 


O    FAR-OFF    ROSE  51 

Of  wistful  hearers,  pressing  close,  to  melt 

The  lonely  peace  away.      .      .      I  took  the  heart 

Out  of  my  bosom,  like  a  frozen  bird, 

To  cherish  it  before  the  living  glow  : 

And  it  awoke. 

And  I  remembered  all. 


O    FAR-OFF  rose  of  long  ago, 
An  hour  of  sweet,  an  hour  of  red, 
To  live,  to  breathe,  and  then  to  go 
Into  the  dark  ere  June  was  dead ! 

Why  say  they  :  Roses  shall  return 
With  every  year  as  years  go  on. 

New  spring-time  and  strange  bloom,  my  rose, 
And  alien  June  ,•  but  thou  art  gone. 


LYRICS   AND   SONNETS 


w 


•  ORDS,  words, 
Ye  are  like  birds. 
Would  I  might  fold  you, 
In  my  hands  hold  you 

Till  ye  were  warm  and  your  feathers  a-flutter  ; 
Till,  in  your  throats, 
Tremulous  notes 
Foretold  the  songs  ye  would  utter. 

Words,  words, 
Te  are  all  birds! 
Would  ye  might  linger 
Here  on  my  finger, 

Till  I  kissed  each,  and  then  sent  you  a-winging 
Wild,  perfect  fight, 
Through  morn  to  night, 
StHging  and  singing  and  singing  ! 


LYRICS    AND    SONNETS 


THE     SONG     OF     A     SHEPHERD-BOY     AT 
BETHLEHEM 

I 

SLEEP,  Thou  little  Child  of  Mary  : 
Rest  The%  now. 
Though  these  hands  be  rough  from  shearing 

And  the  plough, 

Yet  they  shall  not  ever  fail  Thee, 
When  the  waiting  nations  hail  Thee, 
Bringing  palms  unto  their  King. 
Now  —  I  sing. 

II 

Sleep,  Thou  little  Child  of  Mary, 

Hope  divine. 
If  Thou  wilt  but  smile  upon  me, 

I  will  twine 

Blossoms  for  Thy  garlanding. 
Thou'rt  so  little  to  be  King, 

God's  Desire  ! 

Not  a  brier 
Shall  be  left  to  grieve  Thy  brow ; 

Rest  Thee  now. 

Ill 

Sleep,  Thou  little  Child  of  Mary. 

Some  fair  day 
Wilt  Thou,  as  Thou  wert  a  brother, 

Come  away 

Over  hills  and  over  hollow  ? 
All  the  lambs  will  up  and  follow, 


56  THE   WAYFARERS 

Follow  but  for  love  of  Thee. 
Lov'st  Thou  me  ? 


rv 

Sleep,  Thou  little  Child  of  Mary  ; 

Rest  Thee  now. 
I  that  watch  am  come  from  sheep-stead 

And  from  plough. 
Thou  wilt  have  disdain  of  me 
When  Thou'rt  lifted,  royally, 
Very  high  for  all  to  see  : 

Smilest  Thou  ? 


THE  VIGIL  OF  THE  SPHINX 

A  THRONG  of  stars  that  keep  their  watch  with  me, 
A  Dawn  that  flings  her  roses  in  mine  eyes, 
A  drifting  of  the  shadeless  sand  that  lies 
Along  the  desert's  blank  infinity  : 
From  straying  winds,  the  murmur  of  a  Sea, 
An  oracle,  that  ceaselessly  replies 
"Eternity."    .    .    And  so  the  centuries 
Come  silently  and  silently  go  by. 
Men  came  to  listen  at  my  lips,  of  late, 
And  baffled  by  the  silence,  still  they  pray 
The  story  of  a  nation  and  a  day 

I  dreamed  of  once.     And,  "  O  thou  Dumb  and  Great!  " 
The  mendicants  within  my  shadow  say, 
Nor  know  I  am  not  dumb  :   I  only  wait. 


THE   SONG-MAKER  57 


THE   SONG-MAKER 

"^~I~^HE  starless  eyes  of  sorrow 
J_    Why  seekest  thou,  O  youth  ? 
Thine  eyes  speak  that  men  call  the  truth  ; 

Thy  songs  bespealt  fair  morrow! 
Thou  earnest  from  yon  hills  serene 
Rejoicing  ;  hast  thou  never  seen 

The  starless  eyes  of  sorrow?" 

"  Nay,  once,"  he  said,  "in  shadow 

A  cold  wind  whispered  me, 

«  The  woman  Sorrow,  —  there  is  she ! ' 
And  pointed  down  the  meadow. 

But  when  I  crossed  the  fragrant  down, 

I  saw  the  maiden  Peace,  alone, 
Her  fair  face  in  the  shadow. 

"  The  starless  eyes  of  sorrow, 

Men  say,  do  never  smile  : 

For  me,  the  earth  sings  all  the  while, 
The  sunlight  laughs  Good-morrow  ! 

And  would  that  these  my  melodies 

Might  bid  a  single  star  arise 
In  starless  eyes  of  sorrow. " 


58  THE   WAYFARERS 


SONNET  IN  A  GARDEN 

DUMB  Mother  of  all  music,  let  me  rest 
On  thy  great  heart  while  summer  days  pass  by  ; 
While  all  the  heat  up-quivers,  let  me  lie 
Close  gathered  to  the  fragrance  of  thy  breast. 
Let  not  the  pipe  of  birds  from  some  high  nest 
Give  voice  unto  a  thought  of  melody, 
Nor  dreaming  clouds  afloat  along  the  sky 
Meet  any  wind  of  promise  from  the  west. 
Save  for  that  grassy  breath  that  never  mars 
The  peace,  but  seems  a  musing  of  thine  own, 
Keep  thy  dear  silence.      So,  embraced,  alone, 
Forgetful  of  relentless  prison -bars, 
My  soul  shall  hear  all  songs,  unsung,  unknown, 
Uprising  with  the  breath  of  all  the  stars. 


A  CHANGELING  GRATEFUL 

TO    M.   T.    M. 

HERE  they  give  me  greeting, 
House  me  warm  within, 
Break  their  bread  and  share  it 
With  the  heart  of  kin. 

Here  the  ruddy  hearth-light 
Singes  not  a  moth, 
Gives  a  summer  welcome 
As  a  red  rose  doth. 


THREE    SONGS  59 

I  would  leave  a  gift  here 
If  I  might  :   not  I  !  — 
Like  a  homeless  laughter, 
Vagrant  wind  gone  by. 

But  while  J  am  a  glow-worm 
I  will  shine  and  stay  : 
When  I  am  a  shadow      .      .     . 
I  will  creep  away. 

AFTER    MUSIC 

I   SAW  not  they  were  strange,  the  ways  I  roam, 
Until  the  music  called,  and  called  me  thence, 
And  tears  stirred  in  my  heart  as  tears  may  come 
To  lonely  children  straying  far  from  home, 

Who  know  not  how  they  wandered  so,  nor  whence. 

If  I  might  follow  far  and  far  away 

Unto  the  country  where  these  songs  abide, 
I  think  my  soul  would  wake  and  find  it  day, 
Would  tell  me  who  I  am,  and  why  I  stray,  — 
Would  tell  me  who  I  was  before  I  died. 

THREE  SONGS 
I 

AH,   but  when  June's  gone, 
Rose,  where  wilt  thou  be  ? 
Not  beneath  the  snowflakes 

And  a  leafless  tree  ! 
"  Where  no  wild  wind  bloweth, 
Where  it  never  snoweth, 
In  a  warmer  shelter  than  the  South  : 


60  THE   WAYFARERS 

Seek  me, 
Find  me 
Upon  a  maiden's  mouth  !  " 

Ah,  but  when  youth's  gone, 
Rose,  and  wilt  thou  bide  ? 
Never  canst  thou  blossom 

In  such  wintertide. 
"  Where  no  winter  cometh, 
Where  all  summer  bloometh  ; 
Where  the  sunlight  never  may  depart ; 
Seek  me, 
Find  me 
In  her  beloved  heart  !  " 

II 

My  Lady  bent  her  lucent  eyes  on  me 

As  friend-like  greeting, 
And  smote  into  my  life,  unwittingly, 

At  our  first  meeting, 
With  their  most  deadly  sweetness  ; 

Ay,  'tis  so  ! 

Thus  hath  she  slain  me  with  her  fair  completeness, 
Nor  doth  she  know. 

My  Lady  gave  her  snow-soft  hand  to  me, 

And  in  her  fingers 
She  took  my  very  life,  full  sovranly. 

Now  my  ghost  lingers 
Here  prisoned,  all  unwilling, 

Ay,  'tis  so, 

Till  she  shall  grant  it  leave  to  quit  its  dwelling ; 
Nor  doth  she  know. 


THREE   SONGS  61 

My  Lady  spake  sweet  welcome  unto  me ; 

And  with  the  greeting 
The  world  slipt  into  silence  suddenly, 

At  our  first  meeting'. 
Now,  unto  mine  egrs, 
—  Be  it  so  — 

Nought  but  her  voice  breaks  silence,  all  the  years  : 
Nor  doth  she  know. 


Ill 

Shall  I  upbraid  or  praise  her  for 

The  graces  she  doth  shed, 
Who  cannot  help  her  dearness  more 

Than  any  rose  its  red  ? 

Her  beauty  blesses  from  afar 

Whether  she  will  or  no  ; 
The  constant  shining  of  a  star 

In  any  pool  below. 

Whether  her  eyes  remember  me 

And  she  be  far  or  near, 
She  lives,  —  and  cannot  choose  but  be 

My  Dear  ! 


62  THE   WAYFARERS 


NEW    BLOOM 

I  HEARD  the  lilies  growing  in  the  night 
When  none  did  hark  ; 
I  knew  they  made  a  glimmer,  dimly  white 
In  the  cool  dreaming  dark. 

Nothing  the  garden  knew,  — 
So  soft  they  grew,  — 
Until  they  stood  new-risen  in  the  light, 
For  all  to  mark. 

I  heard  the  dreams  still-growing  in  the  night  ; 

Nor  was  there  one 

That  I  saw  clear  or,  seeing,  named  aright ; 
But  when  the  night  was  done, 
The  fragrances  to  be 
Awakened  me  : 

I  saw  their  faces  leaning  glad  and  white 
Towards  thee,  their  sun. 

SUNSET 

THERE  in  the  west  a  dying  rose 
Burns  out  its  life  ;  and  the  petals,  red, 
Fallen  apart 
From  the  golden  heart, 
Fade  into  ashes  around  it  —  dead. 

One  rose  less  in  my  garden  grows  ; 

Lo,  the  unresting  Wind,  that  blows 

Round  the  whole  earth  from  sea  to  sea, 
Gathers  the  one  rose  more  from  me. 

Keep  it,  Eternity. 


DRYADS  63 


INLAND 

THE  ships  they  pass  and  sink,  and  pass, 
Like  dreams  upoH  the  edge  of  sleep. 
The  thought  of  them  is  mine  to  keep 
As  a  dim  pool  may  bosom  deep 
The  whiteness  of  a  star  that  was. 

The  ships  they  sail  into  the  skies 
Across  a  bright  eternity. 
And  here,  —  as  at  a  bird  set  free, 
The  caged  birds,  —  far  out  to  sea 
The  windows  stare  with  haggard  eyes. 


DRYADS 

HUSH,  they  were  here.      I  caught  the  gleam 
Of  white  arms  interlacing, 
Like  tangled  lilies,  tracing 
A  garland  on  a  careless  stream  ; 

And  through  the  swaying  tendrils  there 
Came  startled  air, 
Stirred  to  a  dance,  the  wood  with  joyance  gracing. 

The  young  birds  ceased  the  day-long  lilt 

To  watch  them  so  enringing, 

Like  snow-flakes  all  a-winging. 
The  eager,  bending  branches  spilt 

A  sunlight  on  their  locks,  leaf-wound. 

And  was  the  sound 
I  heard,  a  breath  of  laughter  or  of  singing  ? 


64  THE   WAYFARERS 

Sure  they  were  here  :   for  see  the  grass 

Athrill  where  they  danced  thither. 

But  whither  fled  they,  —  whither  ? 
Who  wist  this  thing  should  come  to  pass  ? 

A  step,  — a  sudden  fluttering, 

As  birds  take  wing,  — 
Then  but  the  fragrance  of  wild  grapes  blown  hither  ! 


WOOD-SONG 

LOVE  must  be  a  fearsome  thing 
That  can  bind  a  maid 
Glad  of  life  as  leaves  in  spring, 
Swift  and  unafraid. 


I  could  find  a  heart  to  sing 

Death  and  darkness,  praise  or  blame  ; 
But  before  that  name, 
Heedfully,  oh,  heedfulljr 

Do  I  lock  my  breast ; 
I  am  silent  as  a  tree, 

Guardful  of  the  nest. 


Ah,  my  passing  Woodlander, 
Heard  you  any  note? 

Would  you  find  a  leaf  astir 
From  a  wilding  throat  ? 


SUMMER   SILENCE  65 

Surely,  all  the  paths  defer 

Unto  such  a  gentle  quest. 
Would  you  take  the  nest  ? 
Follow  where  the  sun-motes  are  ! 

Truly  'tis  a  Sorrow 
I  must  bid  you  fare  so  far  ; 

Speed  you,  and  good-morrow  ! 


SUMMER    SILENCE 

FOR   E.    L. 

SURELY,  sometimes,  afield  through  summer  air 
She  must  have  wandered,  till  she  seemed  to  be 
Compassed  with  silence,  saying  dreamfully 
Unto  her  heart  :   All  dumb,  —  no  sound  is  there. 
Lo,  then,  the  voice,  soft-creeping  from  its  lair 
Of  stillness  —  sudden  tide  of  melody  — 
Horizon  to  horizon,  murmurous  sea 
Of  creature-song  that  held  her  unaware  ! 
There's  not  a  fallow  silence  in  the  Earth, 
Nor  yet  in  Love  ;  although  no  living  lips 
Have  set  the  tremulous  wings  of  air  astir  ; 
Could  she  but  hear,  and  know  this  wordless  dearth 
A  little  seeming,  faded  to  eclipse 
By  the  enfolding  heart  that  sings  to  her. 


66  THE   WAYFARERS 


HAPPINESS 

IT  was  before  the  sunset  that  I  turned 
From  where  the  late  day  burned, 
And  climbed  the  wide  brown  pasture-lands  that  run 
Along  the  hillside  ;  there  the  warm  weeds  purr 
For  comfort  of  the  sun. 
Some  secret  in  their  look 

Led  me  until,  struck  through  with  love  and  awe, 
I  saw 
My  Brook. 
Glad  hastener  ! 

Though  the  high-tide  of  clover  was  astir, 
And  blue-eyed  flowers  leaned  across  the  grass 
To  see  it  pass, 
And  the  long-tangled  tresses 
Of  water-cresses 

Were  misted  with  thin  crystal  understream,  — 
For  more  content 

To  small  suspected  presences,  agleam 
And  then  away  !  —  yet  ever  diligent, 
Untamed,  soft-fluttering, 
The  little  creature  went  on  rapturous  wing, 
Loyal  and  changeful,  feathered,  yet  at  rest, 
On  its  own  quest, 
Subtle  as  light  and  simple  as  a  nest. 
It  mused  among  the  shaggy  weeds  and  bubbled 
In  broken  paths,  untroubled  ; 
With  such  a  tongue  to  comfort  and  beseech, 
It  won  the  stones  to  speech. 
Long  time  I  listened,  pondered,  with  love-looks, 


JONGLEUR  67 

The  ways  of  brooks  ; 

When,  feeling,  half-aware, 

The  benediction-touch  upon  *ny  hair 

Of  something  fair, 

I  turned  from  that  wise  water  happy-voiced  ; 

And  there, 

Against  the  flush  of  waning  afternoon, 

Early,  a  dim  moth-silver,  poised 

The  Moon. 


JONGLEUR 

AH,  ye  that  loved  my  laughter  once, 
Open  to  me  !     'Tis  I 
That  shed  you  songs  like  summer  leaves 

Whenever  a  wind  came  by. 
The  leaves  are  spent  and  the  year  is  old, 
And  the  fields  are  gray  that  once  were  gold. 
Heart  of  the  brook,  my  heart  is  cold  — 
My  song  is  like  to  die. 

The  windows  look  another  way, 

The  walls  are  deaf  and  stark. 
Who  heeds  a  glow-worm  in  the  day, 

Or  lifts  a  frozen  lark  ? 
Warm  yourself  with  the  days  that  were  ; 
Follow  the  Summer,  beg  of  her, 
But  never  sadden  us,  Jongleur, 

Jongleur,  go  down  the  dark! 


68  THE   WAYFARERS 


FARE    YOU   WELL,   JOY 

NOW  fare  you  well,  my  joy,  that  would  not  stay  ; 
Count  it  as  nothing  1  besought  you  so. 
The  place  is  dim,  the  needy  fire  burns  low  ; 
Go  hand  in  hand  with  the  unheeding  day. 
It  is  mine  own  heart's  fault  that  must  alway 
Nest  on  the  edge  of  all  the  winds  that  blow, 
Forgetful  that  there  comes  a  day  of  snow  ; 
Forgetful  that  the  young  year  must  grow  gray. 
But  joy's  so  rare  that  it  has  taught  me  thrift ; 
No  moth  lays  waste  my  rich  remembering  ; 
And  I  may  see,  with  quiet  eyes  uplift, 
—  Some  even,  when  the  fire  takes  heart  to  sing  — 
The  dusk  all  white  with  petalled  snow  adrift, 
Like  the  dear  ghost  of  young  unburied  Spring. 

DEW-FALL 

NOW  the  thrill  of  wings  is  brief, 
Mindless  of  the  sky, 
Quiet  you,  my  heart  of  grief, 
Beating  Why,  and  Why  ? 

Let  the  morrow  have  a  care 

For  the  morrow's  need. 
Fade  along  the  hush  of  air, 

Burden  of  the  weed  ! 

Not  to-night  shall  any  leaf 

Urge  its  way  anew  ; 
No  more  hope,  no  joy,  no  grief : 

Only  dark,  and  dew. 


IN   TIME   OF   FAMINE  69 


MY   SOUL   IS   AMONG   LIONS 

HERE  where  I  keep  my  vigil  in  the  waste, 
No  wind  doth  come.      For  further  loneliness 
The  furtive  wings  of  air,  long  wont  to  bless 
My  listening  soul  with  their  eternal  haste 
Through  the  unhastening  years,  no  more  have  graced 
The  silence,  nor  to  blank  forgetfulness 
Smoothed  the  recording  sand.      No  more,  no  less, 
Stare  back  the  foot-prints  my  own  way  hath  traced. 
Yet  fellowship  is  mine  ;  the  brotherhood 
Of  the  horizon's  lone  infinity  ; 
Dusk  and  mirage,  and  far  as  sight  can  flee, 
Two  shapes  that  crouch  on  guard  (lest  there  intrude 
Hope  of  escape  by  city  or  by  sea), 
Two  lions,  sentinels  of  solitude. 

IN  TIME  OF   FAMINE 

I  AM  the  lord  of  all  these  lands 
Forgotten  by  the  rain  ; 
Lord  of  a  thousand  outstretched  hands 
That  guide  no  plough  again. 

I  have  strong  gates  at  north  and  south 
Against  mine  enemy, 
And  stalwart  towers  that  gaze  on  drouth 
As  far  as  towers  can  see. 

I  am  the  lord  of  these  that  die 

And  lord  of  a  thousand  dead. 

Look  down,  Lord  God  ;  what  lack  have  I, 

Save  only  bread,  —  bread  ! 


70  THE   WAYFARERS 

OLD    BROIDERIES    TO    C.   H.   B. 

I 

OUT  of  the  carven  chest  of  treasured  things 
That  holds  them  dark  and  breathless,  like  a  tomb, 
I  lift  these  scriptured  songs  of  many  a  loom 
That  labors  now  no  longer,  —  nay,  nor  sings. 
And,  one  by  one,  their  soft  unfolding  brings 
Along  the  air  some  touch  of  ghostly  bloom  ; 
The  tacit  reminiscence  of  perfume,  — 
The  uncomplaining  dust  of  mouldered  springs. 
Whether  it  be  from  hues,  once  richly  bled 
Of  rooted  flowers,  some  magic  takes  the  sense, 
Or  if  it  be  that  meek  aroma,  wed 
To  flush  and  sheen  and  shadow,  shaken  thence, 
Or  clinging  touch  of  aging  silken  thread, 
They  hold  me  with  a  tongueless  eloquence. 

II 

I  marvel  how  the  broiderers  could  find 
So  sweet  the  summer  shapes  that  never  fade, 
Though  some  mere  passing  race  of  man  and  maid 
Have  paled,  and  wasted,  and  gone  down  the  wind  ! 
Yet  here  the  toilful  art  of  one  could  bind 
No  dream  with  tenderer  woven  light  and  shade, 
Than  sovran  bloom  and  fruitage,  rare  arrayed, 
Or  listless  tendrils  idly  intertwined. 
Ah,  bitter-sweet !     For  caged  care  to  slake 
Its  thirst  with  joyance  of  the  weed  that  grows, 
The  whim  of  leaf  and  leaf,  and  petal-flake, 
Whatever  way  the  breath  of  April  blows. 
And  poor,  wise,  withered  hands  with  skill  to  make 
The  red,  unhuman  gladness  of  the  rose! 


OLD    BROIDERIES  71 

III 

There  is  a  certain  damask  here,  moon-pale, 
With  the  wan  iris  of  a  snow  on  snow, 
Or  petal  against  petal  cheek  ablow. 
It  wears  its  glories  bride-like,  under  veil ; 
But  shadowed,  half,  the  blanched  folds  exhale 
Sweet  confidence  of  color  ;  and  there  grow  — 
Entwined  and  severed  by  the  gloom  and  glow  — 
Dim  vines  to  muse  upon  till  fancy  fail. 
I  wonder  :  was  it  woven  in  a  dream, 
When,  for  a  space,  one  dreamer  had  his  fill 
Of  perfectness,  —  all  white  desires  supreme 
That  lure  and  mock  the  thwarted  human  will  ? 
The  worker's  dumb.      The  web  lives  on,  agleam, 
Untroubled  as  a  lily,  and  as  still. 

IV 

Ah,  nameless  maker  at  whose  heart  I  guess 
Through  the  surviving  fabric  !      You  were  one 
With  potter  and  with  poet,  —  you  that  spun 
And  you  that  stitched,  unsung  for  it  ;  no  less 
A  part  and  pulse  of  all  the  want  and  stress 
Of  effort  without  end  till  time  be  done,  — 
The  lift  of  longing  wings  unto  the  Sun, 
Forever  beckoned  by  far  loveliness. 
O  wistful  soul  of  all  men,  heart  I  hear 
Close  beating  for  the  heart  that  understands, 
Kin  I  deny  so  often,  —  now  read  clear 
Across  the  foreign  years  and  far-off  lands, 
Let  me  but  touch  and  greet  you,  near  and  dear, 
Cherishing  these,  with  hands  that  love  your  hands  ! 


7*  THE   WAYFARERS 


THE   PIPER 

"  TJIPER,  wherefore  wilt  thou  roam  ? 

X   Piper,  wilt  thou  bide  ? 
Here  thou  shah  have  hearth  and  home, 

And  neighbors  at  thy  side  ; 
Many  flocks  we'll  give  thee,  too, 

Piper,  an  thou  bide." 

«'  Nay  and  nay  !     For  one  unheard 

Calleth  me  to  follow. 
All  I  ask,  a  brother  bird 

Singing  thro'  the  hollow  ; 
And  a  friendly  star  at  night, 

And  a  brook  to  follow." 


A   ROAD   TUNE 

OH,  there  is  morning  yonder, 
And  night  and  noon  again  ; 
And  I  must  up  and  wander 
Away  against  the  rain. 

The  forests  would  delay  me 
With  a  thousand  little  leaves  ; 

The  hilltops  seek  to  stay  me, 
And  valleys  dim  with  eves. 


THE   GARDEN  73 

The  mist  denies  the  mountains, 

t  The  wind  forbids  the  sea ; 

But,  mist  or  wind,  I  go  to  find 

The  day  that  calls  to  me. 

For  there  are  mornings  yonder, 

And  noons  that  call  and  call ; 
And  there's  a  day,  with  arms  outheld, 

That  waits  beyond  them  all. 


RUBRIC 

I'LL  not  believe  the  dullard  dark, 
Nor  all  the  winds  that  weep, 
But  I  shall  find  the  farthest  dream 
That  kisses  me,  asleep. 


THE    GARDEN 

BETWEEN  two  hard  breaths  of  a  parching  day, 
I  am  rapt  away 

Into  some  unkenned  garden-place, 
Where  for  a  space 

Dust  nor  demand  may  reach,  nor  human  speech, 
Nor  any  far-ofF  chime 
From  walls  of  Time. 


74  THE    WAYFARERS 

But  I  wake  up  to  coolness  and  the  peace 

Of  cedarn  fragrances  ; 

And  the  remembered  hush  of  grass  made  new 

With  morning,  and  with  dew. 

And  all  the  darling  trees  of  paradise, 

Leaning  anear,  let  fall 

Vague  petals  in  my  eyes, 

And  hands,  and  over  all, 

Soft  as  the  snow  that  fills  the  broken  ground; 

Till  every  wound 

Is  solaced  ;  and  no  less 

The  air  is  thronged  and  white  with  happiness. 

And  still  with  one  accord 

They  rain  the  petals  down,  soft  blinding  me, 

So  that  I  may  surmise  —  but  never  see  — 

The  Lord. 

TO   THE  UNSUNG 

STAY  by  me,  Loveliness  ;  for  I  must  sleep. 
Not  even  desire  can  lift  such  wearied  eyes  ; 
The  day  was  heavy  and  the  sun  will  rise 
On  day  as  heavy,  weariness  as  deep. 
Be  near,  though  you  be  silent.      Let  me  steep 
A  sad  heart  in  that  peace,  as  a  child  tries 
To  hold  his  comfort  fast,  in  fingers  wise 
With  imprint  of  a  joy  that's  yet  to  reap. 
Leave  me  that  little  light ;  for  sleep  I  must, 
—  And  put  off  blessing  to  a  doubtful  day  — 
Too  dull  to  listen  or  to  understand. 
But  only  let  me  close  the  eyes  of  trust 
On  you  unchanged.      Ah,  do  not  go  away, 
Nor  let  a  dream  come  near,  to  loose  my  hand. 


BEFRIENDED  75 


BEFRIENDED 

IN  sunshine  and  in  rainfall, 
For  steadfast  company, 
There  are  the  far-off,  friendly  hills 
All  unaware  of  me. 

And  when  the  Spring  is  over, 
And  when   the  grass  forgets, 

There  are  the  little  shadows  left 
As  blue  as  violets. 

The  stars  make  shelter  of  the  sky 
With  many  a  window-light. 

The  dreams  that  hide  them  all  the  day 
Sing  star-like  all  the  night. 

The  winds  come  by  from  east  and  west 
With  pleasant  passing  words  ; 

I  warm  my  hands  in  sunset 

And  share  my  bread  with  birds. 


THE    ENEMY    LISTENS 


THE    ENEMY   LISTENS 


HO W  long  it  has  Iain  drowsing  in  my  heart, 
The  torpid  fear,  half  witless  of  its  sting, 
Who  knows  ?    .    .    .     Yet  haply  He  has  smiled  apart, 

All-knowing  and  all-silent :  ay,  at  this, 
How  it  uncoils  slow  length,   awakening, 

And  wakes  to  hiss  ! 

Here  may  I  lean  and  glory  in  my  wings 

While  all  the  stars  go  singing,  sphere  on  sphere 
Bound  to  an  orbit ;  and  with  echoings 

They  set  the  darkness  throbbing.      Oh,  I  hear 

How  they  all  sing,  to  bind 

Me,  —  where  I  poise  and  laugh  at  them  like  wind, 

But  none  too  near. 

If  He  be  All  in  All,  why  stays  He  yet 

To  burn  moth-wings  that  fly  athwart  His  will  ? 
If  He  be  master,  why  has  He  not  set 

A  hand  upon  my  mouth,  to  say,  Be  still, 

As  snowfall  dumbs  the  Earth, 
And  with  the  leaves  all  laughterless,  her  mirth 

Falls  brown  and  chill  ! 

Why  is  He  silent  ?      For  the  seasons  shift, 

A  rainbow  change  of  summer  and  of  cold, 
And  light  and  dark,  like  flickering  clouds  that  drift 
Across  a  bubble,  rose  and  green  and  gold 

All  in  a  bright  dismay, 
Before  it  vanish  in  a  little  spray  : 

The  Earth  grows  old. 


8o  THE    WAYFARERS 

Yet  all  the  while  unshadowed,  I  take  care 

To  lie  in  wait  for  eager  ships  that  be 
So  brave  to  follow,  —  hunt  them  to  my  lair, 
And  drag  them  down,  a-quiver  to  be  free, 
With  broken  wings,  until, 

Struck  through  with  fangs  of  lightning,  they  lie  still 

To  feed  the  Sea. 

Is  He  not  vext  ?     Myself,  I  like  them  well  : 

They  coax  me  like  the  foolish  nest,  unsought, 
Loath  to  be  taken,  that  must  ever  tell 

Where  music  is.      So  have  I  often  caught 

The  winds,  to  pluck  their  sting 
And  send  them  weaponless  and  wandering 

And  good  for  naught. 

Have  I  not  stirred  the  swarms  that  work  men  ill  ? 

Ravelled  time's  work  ?     Have  I  not  laughed  to  see 
How  they  cursed  Him,  unwitting  of  my  will, 
For  all  the  bickering  hate,  when  straight  as  bee 

Homeward  at  evening, 
With  ruin  laden  every  pest  took  wing 

Homeward  to  me  ! 

What  have  I  spared  save  those  mad  stars  of  His 

Because  I  would  not  come  too  near  their  song, 
Urging  to  madness  everything  that  is, 
Luring  to  follow,  drawing  me  along 

To  follow,  on  the  height, 
A  foolish  pathway  trodden  into  light 

By  all  the  throng  ! 


THE    ENEMY   LISTENS  81 

Look  how  they  all  go  timely,  one  and  one, 

To  do  His  bidding  ;  they  that  might  go  free, 
And  do  His  bidding  !  —  moon  and  star  and  sun, 
Singing  the  spell  that  reaches  after  me. 

They  know  not  they  are  mad  : 
Even  the  Earth,  wan  drudge,  goes  ever  sad 

And  bright  to  see. 

I  would  not  listen,  —  nay,  I  will  not  hear. 

So  the  sea-tides  at  ebb  and  flow  may  plead 
With  sea-drift.      So  it  is,  if  you  come  near, 
A  world  would  whirl  you  whither  it  may  lead. 

So  may  the  wind  —  who  knows  ?  — 
Urge  all  the  petals  of  a  doubtful  rose  : 

My  rose,  take  heed  ! 

I  will  not  listen.      Like  a  flock  of  birds 
Circled  about  the  tamer,  set  to  sing 
With  hearts  abeat  to  his  unspoken  words,  — 
Wild  joys,  all  bright  and  unremembering,  — 

So  it  may  be  that  each 
Has  faltered,  trembled,  felt  the  tamer  reach 

To  bind  his  wing. 

Is  it  His  spell  that  measures  what  they  sing  ? 

Some  rhythm  within  His  silence  that  they  hear, 
Whence  all  the  echoes  widen,  ring  on  ring, 

With  all  the  irised  light  from  sphere  to  sphere  ? 

Surely  the  currents  start 
Pulsing  high  tide  from  some  immortal  heart  : 

There  wakes  the  fear. 


82  THE    WAYFARERS 

Why  does  He  tarry  ?     Say  I  fear  Him  not, 

Reach  up  and  blow  the  stars  out  one  by  one, 
Unleash,  to  exultations  long  forgot, 

The  planets  He  hath  charmed  :    were  it  well  done  ? 

Bind  all  the  winds  that  be, 

Shake  meteors  from  their  husks,  drink  of  the  sea, 

Outstare  the  sun! 

Would  it  avail  ?     So  I  make  shift  to  break 

The  enringing  song  and  scatter  it  through  space 
Like  rainfall  fair  to  see,  —  and  if  I  take 
The  lordship  on  me  in  that  desert  place  : 

To  be  alone  with  Him 

There  in  the  void,  among  dead  worlds  left  dim, 

And  face  to  face  ? 

What  if  His  silence  waits  me,  like  a  net 

Hid  in  the  midst  of  them  that  lure  and  call, 
Till  I  —  I  falter,  tremble,  and  forget 

Glory  and  joyance  to  be  tamed  His  thrall  ? 

Even  now,  on  laggard  wing,  — 
Even  now  too  long  I  listen,  wondering 

If  He  be  All  ! 


ENVOY  83 

ENfOT 

THO  U  knowest,  O  my  own  Unsung, 
I  longed  to  speak  a  common  tongue, 
To  set  this  reed 
Unto  the  voice  of  Everyday 
With  its  familiar  yea  and  nay, 
Unto  the  common  heart  and  need. 
Tet  oftentimes,  indeed,  I  seem 
To  dream  ;  — -  to  dream 
How  over  walls  of  paradise 
The  darling  trees  lean  down  to  shed 
A  petal.      And  I  wake,  with  eyes 
Uncomforted. 

Ah,  Beautiful,  be  mild  to  teach 
This  newcomer  the  household  speech  ; 
So  I  some  day  with  better  grace 
May  take  the  bounty  of  the  place  : 
Some  day  with  eyes  that  know  the  years 
I  may  have  wiser  words  to  sing, 
Nor  eat  my  bread  with  furtive  tears 
Of  home-longing. 

But  go  where  lights  and  highways  call, 
To  hear  the  soothsay  of  them  all, 
And  rest  by  any  door ; 
With  hands  outheld  and  heart  uplift 
To  take,  and  welcome  for  a  gift, 
The  wisdom  of  the  one  day  more. 


THIS    BOOK    WAS    PRINTED    BY    THE 

ROCKWELL    AND    CHURCHILL    PRESS    OF    BOSTON 

DURING    NOVEMBER    1898 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9— Series  444 


A        r\r\         *  "'"illlillllll 


PS 

3531 
P3Hwa 


